


an incomplete kindness (an incomplete strength)

by andreaphobia



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Regret, Softness, Sparring, fighting in lieu of talking, hibari helping in the only way he knows how, hidden kindnesses, shout-out to kusakabe tetsuya for putting up with his boss's shit, yamamoto dealing with some shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: Yamamoto favored him with a grin, now sliding his whole palm up over the back of Hibari’s hand, to lace their fingers together. The calluses on his palm grazed Hibari’s skin. “Maybe my dulcet tones will help you sleep.”Hibari snorted softly. “I’ve never known you to be that useful.”In which Yamamoto Takeshi goes a little off the rails, and Hibari decides to help him in the only way he knows how.
Relationships: Hibari Kyouya/Yamamoto Takeshi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 80





	an incomplete kindness (an incomplete strength)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triksyness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triksyness/gifts).



> A gift for Sandreen, who wanted hurt/comfort and angst!
> 
> The theme for this one was Hibari's idea of kindness. No idea if that came through, but hope you enjoy it anyway. :D

The pounding refused to stop.

Hibari rolled over and dragged his pillow over his head. It helped, but only just.

There was a small leak from the eave outside his window, and every once in a while it dripped right onto the sill with a gentle _plunk_ sound. This would almost have been pleasant, if it wasn’t interspersed with the godforsaken ruckus being kicked up by the degenerate outside his door.

_Knock, knock, knock._

“Hibari? You’re home, right? C’mon—I know you’re there.”

_Knock, knock, knock._

“Let me in, I promise I won’t bug you. Just need to get out of the rain for a night!”

Hibari had resolved to ignore him, but after seven and a half minutes of this, he snapped. In a moment of childish fury he flung his pillow at the wall, then rolled out of bed, stalking outside. It took a few moments to undo the locks and chains on the front door, after which he yanked it open, making the hinges squeal in protest.

“What time do you think it is?”

But then he paused, eyes narrowing at the sight of one Yamamoto Takeshi, who was illuminated now by the sliver of light spilling out through the open door. Yamamoto was soaked through by the rain; his suit jacket and shirt clung to his shoulders, looking uncomfortably heavy, and rain dripped from the end of the sheathed sword that was slung over his back. More than anything else, though, what caught Hibari’s notice was the strange, almost fey light that flickered in the depths of Yamamoto’s eyes.

He was reminded, uneasily, of the time he’d had to extract Yamamoto from deep in Smaldone territory, after they had a hit taken out on one of the men who worked under Yamamoto. The extraction itself hadn’t been hard; hell, had been almost enjoyable, considering his body count when all was said and done. But later, on the drive back, with his hands shaking on the steering wheel and the blood spray from some man’s throat still drying on his face, Yamamoto had started laughing and he just... wouldn’t... stop. And this had unnerved Hibari, as much as anything could—the way he still shook with silent laughter even after Hibari had snapped at him to stop, and how that frightening little smile had continued to play around his lips for days afterwards.

(He hadn’t liked that look on Yamamoto’s face back then, and he wasn’t sure that he liked it now.)

“Ah...” Yamamoto grinned at him, and by reflex, Hibari scowled back. “I dunno. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me!” Quickly, before Hibari could shut it, he stuck his foot into the gap of the open door, then relaxed as it became clear that Hibari wasn’t moving to close it. “You’ve still got that spare futon, right?”

Eyes still narrowed, Hibari wrinkled his nose. Faint as it was, he knew the scent of blood when he smelt it—it lingered between them now, tainting the air with iron, with metal.

He scoffed quietly, and turned away, leaving the door ajar behind him. “Do what you want.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Yamamoto happily, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

*

“Drip on the carpet and I’ll bite you to death.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Yamamoto. He was in the kitchen, where the floor was tiled, peeling off his sodden clothing item by item. Hibari came in, and unceremoniously dumped a first-aid kit on the kitchen table.

“I’m not going to help you,” he announced, just in case his general attitude of unhelpfulness hadn’t made that clear enough.

Yamamoto only favored him with a patient grin. Now that his soggy suit jacket was draped over a kitchen chair and dripping a puddle on the kitchen floor, Hibari could see the bloody tear through the seam of Yamamoto’s shirt, under his arm. Beneath this a jagged gash was visible, just barely starting to scab over. Half-unbuttoned, the front of his shirt hung open, too, revealing a litany of bruises across his ribs.

Hibari averted his eyes from this view, and set about making himself a cup of tea. Meanwhile, Yamamoto finished unbuttoning his shirt, draped it over the same chair with his suit jacket, and then sat down at the table across from Hibari.

Over the steam rising from his teacup, Hibari looked on as Yamamoto haphazardly slapped some disinfectant into the gash on his side, then started doing a shitty job of bandaging himself up. About the third time he screwed up and let the bandages come loose again, Hibari pushed his chair back and stood.

“Give me that.” Without waiting for a response, he snatched the roll of gauze out of Yamamoto’s hands. “Lift your arms.”

Obediently, Yamamoto did so, although he was unable to stifle his grin. “I thought you weren’t gonna help?”

Hibari paused.

Then, instead of answering, he yanked the end of the bandage in his hand, a fair bit harder than was necessary. He was rewarded with a flinch and a soft, pained hiss of breath that put a smirk on his face. Yamamoto appeared to take the hint, because he didn’t speak again until Hibari had finished binding the gash and all the mottled bruises which were forming on Yamamoto’s torso, and pinned the end of the bandage neatly in place.

“Only because you were doing such a terrible job,” Hibari said as he began piling things back into the first-aid kit. He was smiling that flat, dangerous smile, the one that typically made herbivores run for their lives.

But Yamamoto only grinned. He stretched languidly, testing the give of the bandages, then reached over to pat Hibari on the cheek, twice. The third time he did so, Hibari knocked his hand away, and he withdrew with a chuckle.

“Thanks, honey,” he drawled. He got to his feet, letting one hand brush Hibari’s hair on his way to the door. “Anyway—I’m pretty beat, so I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Hibari blinked once, slowly, and then refocused. That was... unexpected, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Do your laundry tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And wipe up the mess you made on the floor.”

Yamamoto poked his head back into the kitchen.

“You know, if you don’t want me to say ‘yes, mom’, you shouldn’t say stuff that makes me want to say it.”

He narrowly dodged the tea towel that was lobbed at his head, and went out laughing. Scowling to himself, Hibari picked up the first-aid kit, and turned out the lights.

*

Three days later, Yamamoto was still there.

It had occurred to him on the third night that Yamamoto had said he just wanted to get out of the rain for a night. Well, it had been multiple nights and it had long since stopped raining, so clearly that had been a lie.

“You’re still here,” he noted, as Yamamoto came into his bedroom that evening after his shower, wrestling a shirt over his head. (The spare futon was still spread out in the spare room; had been used once, that first night, and then promptly abandoned.)

Like a turtle emerging from its shell, Yamamoto’s head finally popped out through the collar of his sleep shirt. Then, after he had wrangled his arms out through the sleeves, he gave Hibari a quizzical look.

“Uh-huh. And?”

Hibari eyed the smile on his face, which had the slightest of edges to it, then shrugged. “Nothing.” He waited until Yamamoto had come around to the edge of the bed and sat down, mattress giving slightly with a creak, before starting to say, “Don’t the Vongola have work for you to—”

But he only got halfway through this sentence before the world spun and he found himself pinned to the sheets beneath Yamamoto’s weight. Nor was there any time to speak, because then Yamamoto’s mouth was pressed over his, sealing away anything else he might have wanted to say.

As far as kisses went, it wasn’t very good. Hibari kept his eyes open, focused on Yamamoto’s face; on the tension written in the creases of his brow. His arms remained loose at his sides, though his fingers tensed reflexively against the sheets. The calluses of Yamamoto’s palm were rough on his jaw, holding him still as Yamamoto slipped a tongue into his mouth, tasting strongly of Hibari’s own mouthwash.

When he drew back, he left his hand where it was, cupping Hibari’s cheek as one might have a lover’s.

“Keep talking about work and you’re going to ruin the mood,” said Yamamoto, with a grin that was too close and far too bright.

Hibari raised his eyebrows, sardonic.

“What makes you think I am ‘in the mood’?”

“Oh, I can just tell. What do they call ‘em again? Pheromones?”

Hibari felt him tense then, perhaps expecting the swing of a fist, but Hibari only rolled his eyes. “Stop talking.” He brought his hands up, dropping them onto the back of Yamamoto’s neck to start dragging him back down.

Yamamoto, still grinning wide and bright, did not resist.

*

Hibari left early the next morning, while Yamamoto was still snoring and hogging all the blankets in his usual infuriating fashion. Tetsu had just returned from a long stint in Japan, and it was customary for them to do their first debriefing in person, whenever they happened to land in the same country again. (It might even have felt like overkill, since he’d received an urgent report from the ground just the week before, but Hibari was nothing if not a fan of tradition.)

Tetsu was already waiting for him when he arrived, as was also customary. There was tea, which he helped himself to, while Tetsu knelt silently nearby, in seiza. His posture was impeccable, but his face was haggard, his eyes tired and red. Hibari was aware that he had taken an overnight flight—but he also knew that there was more than one reason for Tetsu to look that way.

He drained his cup, then set it aside.

“Report,” was all he said. Kusakabe Tetsuya nodded, and cleared his throat.

“Discipline in Namimori has yet to be restored. The incident from last week remains a... a stain on the Foundation’s name. We’re currently reviewing our security protocols to identify how this lapse occurred. We’re also working to identify specifics about the perpetrators, although it seems nearly certain that the Millefiore had a hand in it—”

He quailed slightly as Hibari scowled, although it wasn’t him that Hibari was looking at. Discipline, indeed... This would never have happened if he had been in Namimori, himself. But he hadn’t been, and so the thing had come to pass. Judging by the reports from the ground, the old man had put up a good fight... but there was only so much one man could do, unless that man’s name was Hibari Kyouya.

Hibari bit his thumbnail, silent for a moment—recognizing the futility of anger, yet grieved by it nonetheless. Wisely, Tetsu waited until he had looked back up and made an impatient gesture with his hand before continuing with his report.

“Well... apart from that... our research in the facilities in Piedmont and Lombardy is proceeding well.” He began to recount the research team’s latest findings—something to do with proposed modifications to the grading system for rings—and so Hibari listened with half an ear, fidgeting idly with his empty teacup. It wasn’t as though he didn’t appreciate the research team’s efforts, but on some level, he also just didn’t care. Nearly all of the rings he obtained shattered after one use, anyway; what did it matter how they were classified?

Perhaps noticing his boss’s disinterest, Tetsu stopped short. “I’ll include the rest of the details in my written report—you can read it at your leisure, Kyou-san.”

Hibari blinked, coming back to himself. “Fine,” he said, and started to get up.

“Ah—actually, there was... one more thing.” Tetsu hesitated, then, waiting until Hibari had sat back down with a frown. “Um...”

Hibari eyed him. It wasn’t like Tetsu to falter so, and it made him suspicious. “What is it?”

Tetsu cleared his throat again, and averted his eyes. “We received a request for a conversation with you earlier this morning, from Sawada Tsuyanoshi. We have a line open—I could put you through right now, if that would...”

He quailed again as Hibari turned eyes onto him, looking most displeased. Hibari did not wish to speak with Sawada; in fact, he did not wish to speak with anyone. He folded arms over his chest, crossly.

“I don’t want to,” he said—petulant, perfectly aware that he was being so, yet completely unrepentant.

Tetsu bit his lip. He appeared to be suppressing a smile, which Hibari magnanimously decided to outlook. “I understand that, Kyou-san, but he said it was urgent. It shouldn’t take long, and you don’t have anything else scheduled for today...”

“Herbivores say what is convenient,” Hibari muttered, but acquiesced, waving a bored hand to signal Tetsu to put him through. Tetsu unfolded a laptop, fiddled with it for a moment, and then placed it down in front of Hibari before bowing himself out of the room.

The line rang once, twice, three times before the call finally connected.

“What,” said Hibari irritably, before the face that had flickered into view even had time to say ‘hello’. Instead, it just chuckled.

_“You’re looking as healthy as ever, Hibari-san.”_

“This is not a social call,” said Hibari, one part questioning to three parts threatening. On the laptop’s screen, the smile faded from Sawada’s face.

_“No. It’s not.”_ The image of Sawada steepled its fingers in front of its face, turning somber. _“Actually, this is about Yamamoto. We were wondering if... ahh... if you’d seen him around, perhaps.”_

Hibari paused—just long enough to be significant, long enough that someone like Sawada Tsunayoshi would understand—before lowering his eyes, feigning disinterest. “Why ask me?”

_“Hmm...”_ A bit of a smile returned to the low-resolution image of Sawada’s face, if only for a moment. _“Just call it a hunch, I suppose. We lost touch with him a few days ago—he disconnected his phone, and couldn’t be found at any of his residences. Rumors reached us of a man with a sword causing some havoc in the northern parts of Italy, but nothing concrete. Then sources told me you happened to be in the country, so I figured maybe there was a chance...”_

“Maybe you should do a better job of keeping tabs on your guardians.”

He watched Sawada wince.

_“Touche,”_ said Sawada, grinning wryly. _“Be that as it may, though, now that he’s gone AWOL, I'd like to make sure he's all right. To tell you the truth..."_ Sawada's face hardened, aging years in a moment—shedding all traces of the fresh-faced boy Hibari had known from school. (Hibari wondered, off-handedly, if it was tiring to have to keep changing one's expression. It certainly seemed like it would be.) _"There was an incident in Namimori last week. Yamamoto's father..."_

"Was killed, correct?"

He said this quite matter-of-factly, but Sawada still needed a moment to recover from his surprise, blinking slowly a few times before carefully closing his mouth.

_"So you knew...”_

"I know everything that happens in Namimori," said Hibari, neither willing nor able to conceal the irritation in his voice. "My people are already looking into it. I will instruct them to share their findings with your people." Like as not, Tetsu would probably have done so without his explicit instructions anyway, but it couldn't hurt to give it the official seal of approval.

_"We'd appreciate that very much,"_ said Sawada, in a quiet voice. He leaned stiffly back in his chair, weary under burdens too heavy for one man's shoulders. Then he put his face in his hands, and blew out a slow, shaky breath.

Hibari blinked to see this uncharacteristic show of weakness, then narrowed his eyes, but did not speak, waiting for Sawada to explain himself. But many more moments passed before Sawada seemed to be able to collect his thoughts.

_"He didn't... blame me, you know. Not even a little. All he said was that... was that...”_ Sawada’s voice shook. _“That these things happen."_ He pressed the butts of his hands into his eyes, hard, and left them there for a long moment—but when he pulled them away again, they were dry. _"That it's not my fault, and I shouldn’t blame myself"_ He looked beseechingly into the camera on his side, staring, wide-eyed, as though he could look right through Hibari. _"Can you believe that?"_

Hibari didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer, so Sawada shook his head once, sighed, and continued.

_"I just... I’d like to make sure he's doing okay. Could you let me know if he turns up over there? He doesn't have to come back if he's not ready, just..."_

He trailed off into a silence, which stretched on for some time. Hibari waited until it seemed unlikely that Sawada would finish his sentence, then inclined his head and said coolly, "Are you finished?"

The tiniest of smiles touched Sawada's lips.

_"Yeah. Yeah... that's all I had, I guess. Sorry for taking up your time, Hibari-san."_

Hibari considered saying _You should be_ , but decided that, on the balance of things, it wasn't the right time for that. He drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment, impatient, and then huffed.

"Spend your time worrying about your own concerns, not mine."

Before Sawada had time to say anything else, he reached out, snapping the lid of the laptop shut and ending the call without so much as a goodbye. Then he sat back, feeling terribly annoyed.

As if he’d needed to be told any of that. No; it had all been quite unnecessary. Frowning at his own thoughts, which felt fragmented and strange, he got to his feet, and went to the door. There was someone waiting for him at home, after all.

*

All was dark and quiet inside the flat when he arrived, which came as something of a surprise, given that it was almost noon. Perhaps, he thought, Yamamoto wasn’t up yet.

He turned on the lights as he walked into the living room, then paused halfway through the act of shrugging off his suit jacket. His errant house guest was lying sprawled on the floor alongside the couch, staring morosely up at the slowly-spinning ceiling fan. His gaze flickered over to Hibari at the sound of the door opening, though his expression remained completely still, sealed over with apathy.

“Oh, you’re back. How’s Kusakabe-san?”

“Fine.” Hibari finished shrugging off his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch, then came around to the front of it to sit down, making sure to step on Yamamoto’s stomach along the way.

“Ow,” Yamamoto deadpanned, but at least he was grinning as he levered himself up, moving to join Hibari on the couch. “You’re so kind, Hibari.”

Hibari gave a soft snort, just barely shifting over to make some room for him. “Kindness is for the weak.”

“Guess I’m weak, then, huh?” said Yamamoto, brightly. He started to lean in, then, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, and he was bare centimeters away from Hibari’s mouth when Hibari decided to open it and speak.

“Sawada was asking after you.”

Yamamoto went quite still, the smile frozen on his face. Then he chuckled sheepishly, and sat back once more.

“Ahh, yeah... He’s probably worried, right?” He smiled, turning his vacant gaze on the wall opposite the couch. “I guess I oughta let them know I’m okay... or something.”

“If that’s how you feel, then why not go back?”

Yamamoto let his head fall onto the back of the couch with a sigh. “Dunno. I just...” He raised a hand to reach tentatively towards the ceiling, fingers flexing a little, as though he was trying to grab something right out of the air. Then he smiled, and let it fall again to rest on the couch between them—palm up, fingers half curled in on themselves. “I think it’s that... I just don’t care. You know? It just...” With every word his voice shrank, growing quieter and quieter until it seemed like it might vanish entirely. “It just... doesn’t... _matter_ , anymore.”

Hibari’s gaze flickered from Yamamoto’s empty hand to his empty face. His eyes narrowed. “You _should_ go back,” he said coldly. “Stop taking up room in my house. Stop using my toothpaste. Stop drinking my alcohol.”

Yamamoto chuckled quietly. (Hibari resisted the urge to smack the distant look right off his face.)

“Oh, c’mon, I only had one beer. You still have five left!”

“All six of them were for me.”

“You’re so damn stingy...”

Hibari interrupted him by leaning in, pressing his lips over Yamamoto’s; brief but open-mouthed, with a teasing little flick of the tongue.

There was a short, sharp intake of breath, and then Yamamoto’s eyes focused on him, for what felt like the first time since the day he’d arrived. It wasn’t much, but even so, Hibari felt a small flicker of satisfaction. He arched an eyebrow, allowing Yamamoto to bear him down onto the couch. “Am I?”

“Depends,” said Yamamoto, already unbuttoning Hibari’s shirt, eyes bright and alive, even if it was only for the moment. “What else are you gonna let me do?”

*

Later he left Yamamoto dozing on the couch, in the middle of the mess they had made—if anything was stained, he was sending the cleaning bill to Gokudera—and went to make a call in the kitchen, with the door shut.

Tetsu picked up after just one ring. Hibari reeled off a list of instructions, had Tetsu repeat it back to him until he was satisfied that nothing had been missed, and then hung up.

Then he took a shower, and afterwards started packing a bag. It never hurt to be prepared.

*

Most people probably believed that Hibari had no sense of humor, but this was not remotely true. What _was_ true was that, much like Hibari himself, his sense of humor was somewhat unconventional.

For instance, he derived a non-zero amount of amusement from how, just a few hours earlier, Yamamoto had been woken unceremoniously from his nap on the couch, forced into the shower, forced to get dressed, and then forced to get in the car to start driving them to a mystery destination. It wasn’t laugh-out-loud funny (not that anything ever was), but it kept Hibari in decent spirits for most of the drive.

“I still don’t know where we’re going,” Yamamoto griped, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel as they flew down the highway, the other twitching a little towards the stereo (Hibari had forbidden him from putting on _‘that herbivore music again’_ , but Yamamoto was a boundary-pusher through and through). “What’s with all the secrecy, anyway?”

“Take a wild guess,” said Hibari, in a bored voice. “It’s the exit after this.”

“Wait.” They blew past yet another sign with an airplane symbol on it, which Yamamoto’s one-track mind had apparently finally registered. “We’re going to the airport?”

“Very perceptive.”

“I—Are you going somewhere? I think you might already know this but I don’t, uh, have my passport.”

“It’s been taken care of,” said Hibari, shortly. And indeed it had, thanks to some extremely quick leg-work by Tetsu; said passport had been extracted from Yamamoto’s quarters in the Vongola base of operations, delivered to the Foundation’s right-hand man, and was now tucked safely into Hibari’s carry-on bag in the trunk.

“Oh. Right. So...” Yamamoto drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, doing a rather poor job of concealing his nerves. “Uh... where are we headed, exactly?”

“If you continue to ask questions, I will bite you for every one.”

“Do I get to choose where? Ow! Okay, okay.” Yamamoto chuckled, massaging the knuckles where Hibari’s teeth-marks were slowly fading. “Have it your way, then. No more questions.” He fell into a contemplative silence, then, which lasted all the way until they had pulled into the long-term parking lot.

The moment Yamamoto pulled the hand-brake, Hibari reached over to him to pop open the trunk, and then got out, going around to the back of the car. He shoved the spare carry-on that Tetsu had prepared into Yamamoto’s arms, and then dropped his passport on top, a boarding pass tucked neatly inside. Yamamoto spent a second juggling all of these things to get them properly situated, then flipped open his passport to read the flight destination.

Hibari was already walking away when Yamamoto spoke, in a very different-sounding voice—slightly shaky, a little rough around the edges, raw like an open wound.

“We’re... going back to Japan?”

Hibari paused mid-step to glance back. In light tones—as close to joking as he ever got—he said, “I thought I told you no more questions. Where do you want to be bitten?”

But Yamamoto didn’t seem to be in the mood for humor. All pretense of cheerfulness had faded. His eyes were wide and almost plaintive; he looked unsteady, as though the ground itself threatened to collapse underfoot.

“Hibari, I... I don’t... I’m not...”

Scowling, Hibari moved quickly to close the distance between them in a few short steps. When he raised his hand Yamamoto flinched, but he merely reached out, folding his palm over the stubble-roughened curve of Yamamoto’s jaw, leaving his thumbpad resting possessively over the notch of white scar tissue which marred his chin. He said nothing; merely gave Yamamoto a searching look, studying the lines of his face as though expecting to find weakness written there, in plain terms.

But there was no such thing. There were only traces of grief, and grief alone, Hibari knew, did not equate to weakness. He touched Yamamoto’s lip with his thumb, once, then turned away.

“Just come,” he said quietly, and began to walk again. He did not look back, but after a few moments heard footsteps following him, and was satisfied.

*

In general Hibari was allergic to hand-holding, but on rare occasions, he could be convinced to allow it.

—well, perhaps ‘convinced’ was too strong of a word. They were seated by their gate, half an hour before boarding time, and honestly, it just didn’t seem worth the hassle to tell Yamamoto to stop. (Even if passers-by were glancing at each other and whispering behind their hands to see it.)

“Gonna be a long flight,” Yamamoto mused, winking at an older lady who was eyeing their linked hands with a scandalized expression. “Hey, you wanna pick a movie to watch together?”

“It will be even longer if you’re talking the whole time,” Hibari muttered, settling grumpily into his chair. Yamamoto was playing with his fingers now, running a thumb over the backs of his knuckles, caressing them over and over again. For a moment Hibari considered pulling his hand away, but... well. Probably not worth the effort.

Yamamoto favored him with a grin, now sliding his whole palm up over the back of Hibari’s hand, to lace their fingers together. The calluses on his palm grazed Hibari’s skin. “Maybe my dulcet tones will help you sleep.”

Hibari snorted softly. “I’ve never known you to be that useful.”

With his free hand, Yamamoto mimed being shot through the heart, and then chuckled. “You sure have a smart mouth, for someone with such a pretty face.”

And Hibari was just opening his mouth to retort _I didn’t realize those things were related_ , but Yamamoto leaned in, kissed him quiet, and then leaned back to give him a little smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

So he just rolled his eyes with a huff, sat back in his chair, and went back to waiting.

Afterwards, they boarded the plane without incident, and got settled in. Yamamoto tried to put up the armrest between their seats, and only stopped when Hibari got that crazy look in his eyes. He chattered incessantly until Hibari forced headphones onto him and put on a random arthouse movie, and within an hour he had nodded off.

It was a bloody nuisance trying to maneuver with an idiot who was taller than he had any right to be snoring against his shoulder, but after a heroic struggle Hibari managed to get one of their blankets out of that weird cling-wrap film it came in, and threw it over Yamamoto’s knees. Then he pulled a book out of his carry-on, thumbed to the page with his bookmark, and began to read from where he’d left off.

Some time later, there was a groggy sound from the general vicinity of his shoulder.

“Hibari...?”

Hibari said nothing; he merely turned a page. There was stillness for a while—nothing but that airplane cabin-noise of murmured voices and whispered breaths, and the distant sound of air rushing past them like a river.

As he turned another page, Yamamoto sighed, then snuggled back down against his shoulder without a word. Within minutes, he had dozed off again.

*

There was still an hour before landing when Yamamoto woke up. Hibari half-expected him to say something, but he had merely rolled up the window shade and then put his chin on one hand to stare out at the approaching land-mass of their homeland, with no particular expression on his face.

They touched down in early morning, with the light of the new sun spilling across the hills, still dawn-pale and milky weak. There was a black sedan with tinted windows already waiting for them at the curb outside arrivals. They bundled into it together, Hibari nodded to the driver, and then they were off.

As the streets blew past outside, each one more familiar than the last, Yamamoto’s face remained freakishly still, as placid as the surface of an undisturbed lake. It unnerved Hibari slightly, in the same way as something unnatural, like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. But he did not mention it; only curled his hands into fists where they rested on his knees, and glared at the headrest of the seat in front of him, as though for all the world it was the thing that had caused their problems.

It had been quiet for so long before Yamamoto finally said something that he nearly flinched.

“Did Tsuna put you up to this?”

Hibari glanced at him, then, but he was still just staring evenly out the window, with the vaguest of half-smiles playing around his lips.

“...No.”

Yamamoto made a slightly interested noise in his throat, but didn’t pursue the subject further. The car was turning onto a street that would bring them into Namimori proper, and some of the stores they passed by now were recognizable from their school days. It was enough, Hibari thought, to make another man sentimental.

A man like Yamamoto Takeshi, for instance. “You know, since we’re in the area, maybe we should drop by Namichuu.” His smile was a shadow of its former self. “For old times’ sake!”

“Perhaps,” Hibari allowed.

The smile did not budge from Yamamoto’s face, but it looked less like a smile now than ever. With a short, sharp laugh that quickly faded into silence, he leaned back. His gaze was even, flat with a lack of affect.

“I’m not going home, you know. You can drive us there if you want, but you can’t make me go inside.”

Privately, Hibari doubted this, but he also had enough sense to realize that it wasn’t the time to argue about his relative ability to make people do things that they didn’t want to do.

“Good thing that is not where we are going, then.”

That got Yamamoto’s attention. He looked directly at Hibari for the first time since they had gotten into the car, and Hibari stared back at him, bordering on smug.

“But then...”

Hibari scoffed quietly. “Herbivores have no imagination.”

They rounded another corner; Yamamoto peered round the driver’s seat, out through the windshield, and frowned. And then the realization hit him.

“Oh. We’re—we’re... oh.” Hibari noted the mutinous look on Yamamoto’s face as he threw himself back in his seat, but promptly dismissed it as being of little importance. “Well—you know what? I don’t want to go there either!”

Hibari lifted one shoulder, as though he couldn’t even be bothered to shrug properly. “Stay in the car if you want. I am going inside. And if you do not join me, I will break things until you do.”

This pronunciation earned him a scandalized look. “ _Hibari!_ ”

Hibari did not care. The car was rolling to a stop outside the _Asarigumi_ , the place where Yamamoto Takeshi had received his first lessons in the blade, so many years before. Without preamble, Hibari got out of the car and began to walk, and did not wait to see if he was being followed. For a few seconds there was nothing—but then he produced his tonfas, swinging them purposefully, and immediately heard the sound of the car door on the other side being opened in a hurry, followed by footsteps.

“Hibari, c’mon—you’re not serious, are you?”

“I am always serious.” With one hand, Hibari tried the front gate, but found it locked. When he raised a tonfa Yamamoto sprinted forward, hands held out to placate.

“Wait, wait— _wait!_ Look—just hold on, we have a spare key somewhere out here. Let me just...” Under Hibari’s suspicious eye, Yamamoto waded into the unkempt brush to the side of the path, where some cypress planter boxes lined the outside of the dojo. He leaned down, patting his hands into the dark soil at the bottom of the planter boxes seemingly at random, until his face lit up and he held up one triumphant fist, in which something small and shiny and metallic was clutched. “See? No need to be hasty. Or break any doors.”

Hibari didn’t bother voicing his disagreement. He stepped back to allow Yamamoto to fumble with the gate, which he eventually managed to unlock. It was a little stuck, so he planted his feet firmly and pulled, hard, finally managing to drag it open to reveal the hallways within.

All was dark and silent inside. Dust motes hung stagnant in the few scattered sunbeams that spilled through the highest windows, which seemed themselves to be like a moment frozen in time; like a window to a lost world.

Hibari’s breath caught in his throat. Despite his threat to smash things, he still retained some manners, even if it was mostly out of habit. He paused by the threshold to toe out of his shoes, then put his arms flat by his sides, and bowed. Then, and only then, did he step up and inside, walking with purpose into the depths of the dojo. (He moved at such a clip that he heard Yamamoto stumbling to catch up behind him, but naturally, the thought of slowing down never crossed his mind.)

The main hall of the dojo was exactly as he remembered it—a wide, high-ceilinged room with tatami-lined floors, brimming with natural light that possessed a certain faint, watery quality from being filtered through all the paper screen doors lining its perimeter. He left Yamamoto lingering nervously by the door to stalk around the far side of the room, studying the myriad weapons that were arrayed on the walls. His sources had informed him that it would be here, but it wasn’t as though they’d drawn a map. His gaze roamed ceaselessly, methodically, from left to right, top to bottom, and then—there it was.

It wasn’t in any particular place of honor; for all intents and purposes, it seemed to be just one of many bamboo swords, but there was no mistaking it. He would recognize that _shinai_ anywhere.

He plucked it unceremoniously from the wall rack; held it in one hand for a moment, savoring its familiar weight, and then turned and threw it to Yamamoto.

Yamamoto caught it, realized what it was, and then immediately dropped it as though he had been burned.

“Seriously, Hibari—this isn’t funny. I’m not in the mood for...”

“I am never funny.” Hibari was staring at Yamamoto, without a single trace of warmth left on his face. “Pick it up.”

“Look, all I’m trying to say is...”

Hibari did not answer. He was rapidly tiring of words, which in his opinion had never been an adequate vessel for his thoughts or feelings, anyway. Scowling, he brought up his tonfas, falling into a ready stance. When Yamamoto did not react, Hibari flew at him anyway, swinging the tonfas up and down in a blow that would likely have knocked Yamamoto unconscious, if it had not been blocked with his bare hands. It must have hurt, for Yamamoto flinched noticeably, and this gave Hibari enough time to spin round, driving his foot into the side of Yamamoto’s jaw and sending him crashing into the nearest wall.

Yamamoto slid down with a groan, and then caught himself on bruised hands. He began to raise himself up, but paused as Shigure Kintoki spun to a stop near him, kicked over by Hibari from where it had lain on the ground.

“Pick it up,” Hibari repeated, in the same silky voice which carried with it the implicit threat of violence. And the way Yamamoto went still, it was clear he heard it. There was no telling when Hibari would stop, or whether he would stop at all. The message was clear as day: defend yourself, or die.

Reluctance etched into his face, Yamamoto picked up the shinai, using it to lever himself back to his feet. He could not, however, stop himself from one last ditch attempt to appeal to Hibari’s humanity.

“Can’t we just, like, _talk_ about this?”

Hibari readied his tonfas, and this time, Yamamoto responded in kind. Satisfied by this, Hibari nodded.

“We are,” he said simply, and broke into a run.

Their first clash rang out with the guttural sound of steel meeting steel, and despite himself, despite everything, it put a smile on Hibari’s face. It had been too long, too long since they had last done this. After all, Yamamoto Takeshi had returned Shigure Kintoki into his father’s care a long time ago, ever since the destruction of the Vongola rings had forced his hand. It would’ve been a lie to say Hibari hadn’t missed this—the way they danced around each other, the sound of steel cutting through the very air itself, and the jarring soreness that went all the way into his bones whenever he blocked a blow that used all of Yamamoto’s strength—would’ve been fiction to say that he didn’t dream of this sometimes when they were apart, and wake up alone, filled with wordless longing.

Yamamoto was not smiling, but neither did he have that lost herbivore’s look he had worn perpetually since the day he had shown up on Hibari’s doorstep, battered and bloody and soaked to the bone. He had sharpened, shedding that sheep’s mask he always wore to blend in with the family, baring his soul. He swung his sword up to fend off another wild tonfa blow, sending Hibari stumbling; Hibari recovered, but not quite in time to avoid the sharp edge of Shigure Kintoki skimming his arm, slicing right through the sleeve to leave a nick in the flesh below.

The pain was like a burst of bright light in a cellar that had been dark for a very long time. A natural pause followed this; Hibari fell back a few steps, and then lowered his tonfas, glancing with a detached curiosity at the blood that was beginning to seep out through the torn flesh.

He reached up, thumbing the wound through the ripped sleeve, and then brought the blood-smeared finger to his lips to lick it clean. Yamamoto said nothing, but his eyes were dark as they followed Hibari’s every movement, fixating particularly on the curl and flick of his tongue.

Then, with this ritual completed, he raised his tonfas again, and arched an eyebrow. Yamamoto’s expression did not change, but he nodded, and readied his sword, and they came together once more.

Time passed, though neither of them really noticed. Hibari was only distantly aware that the room had grown darker; that at some point, the light which bled through the screen doors had faded so much that it had nearly vanished entirely. He was also somewhat aware that he was starting to flag—he was hungry, and jet-lagged, and hadn’t gotten half as much rest as Yamamoto had on the flight.

It wasn't clear if Yamamoto himself had noticed this. Nevertheless he continued to fight, with a kind of single-minded intensity that Hibari could not help but reciprocate. They struck out at each other again; sparks flew as Yamamoto dragged his blade down along the outside of Hibari’s tonfas, pressing inward relentlessly. Hibari’s hands were near shaking with the effort of holding him back. He grunted aloud, and then with one massive strain, managed to force Yamamoto away.

Yamamoto fell back a few steps, shaking out his sword arm. His face was still as he planted his feet wide, falling into a stance that sparked recognition in Hibari’s mind.

He recalled the first time he had seen Yamamoto use this move. Against that loud one, from the Varia—Squalo, that was his name—ten years ago now, it must have been, but he remembered it as freshly as if it had happened yesterday. How Shigure Kintoki had whistled through the air with each swift slash... And overlaid over this was an image of Yamamoto repeating these movements over and over again, as he grew taller, stronger with age; an image that was embedded in Hibari’s memory as vividly as though it had happened to himself.

He cocked his head to one side, almost like a question, but Yamamoto didn’t move, didn’t even twitch a muscle. So Hibari shrugged, inwardly, and dashed forward to welcome him.

Even as prepared as he was, the first flash of the blade caught him by surprise. A low blow across the knees, then another to the gut... with two tonfas he could keep up, but it wasn’t easy with fatigue slowing his movements. He stumbled through what he could remember of the kata, and took the other blows to his body. The very last one landed in the center of his gut, fortunately with the flat side of the blade; he stumbled back, falling to one knee with a grunt, but just barely managed to stay upright.

But it was over, regardless. There was one quiet thud as Shigure Kintoki fell from Yamamoto’s nerveless fingers to land on the tatami, and then another as he dropped to his knees, hands pressed over his face, and began to sob.

(And then—quite apropos of nothing—Hibari remembered something else. An evening of sparring, during which Yamamoto had demonstrated this same form, with an easy, insouciant self-confidence borne from years of practice. And afterwards he had laughed, even as Hibari had folded arms over his chest crossly, feigning disinterest; telling him all about the eighth form, about Pouring Rain. About who had created it, and what it had meant.)

The tears slid down Yamamoto’s cheeks, through his fingertips, soaking his sleeves. There was no sound in the empty hall but that of quiet weeping.

Hibari closed his eyes, and lowered his head.

*

They stayed overnight, in a room that had been arranged for them by the Foundation. There was a first-aid kit waiting for them on the bed when they arrived, which Hibari was pleased to see. (Clearly, Tetsu had guessed what their itinerary could mean, and made appropriate arrangements.)

He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Yamamoto to dress the cut on his arm, then switched places so he could apply ointment to Yamamoto’s various scrapes and bruises in return.

As he worked, Yamamoto watched him with swollen, puffy eyes.

“Hey, Hibari...”

Hibari merely grunted to show that he was listening, which got a chuckle out of Yamamoto.

“You know... I’ve been thinking about this a lot, lately. I bet you don’t remember at all.”

Hibari raised his eyebrows, though his gaze remained focused on the side of Yamamoto’s jaw, where he was currently slathering ointment over the bruise that had begun to bloom there. Smiling, a little self-conscious, Yamamoto went on.

“There was this one time... my pops asked you to call him ‘dad’. You don’t remember that, do you?”

“I remember.” And it was true; he remembered visiting Takesushi on Yamamoto Tsuyoshi’s birthday one year in high school, to pay his respects. Yamamoto Takeshi had teased him for not bringing a present despite not having one himself, and Hibari was just thinking about how he could procure some fine sake when the old man had chuckled, the mirror image of his son, and said, _Why, if Hibari-chan wants to give me a present, how ‘bout calling me dad once in a while?_

The memory brought with it a sense of warmth, but also hurt—a small, sharp pain, like a thorn inside his chest. “I remember,” he said again, quietly.

For a few long moments, Yamamoto did not respond. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and looked at Hibari in wonder. Finally, he said—hesitating slightly, as though uncertain he should ask at all—“Did you ever?”

Hibari bit the inside of his cheek. Honesty was not always the best policy, but there were times when it seemed appropriate.

“Sometimes,” he said, capping the tube of ointment firmly as he turned away. “When you weren’t around.”

“Oh.” There was silence as Hibari busied himself with the first-aid kit, his back to Yamamoto. If he hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t been listening for it, he wouldn’t even have heard what Yamamoto said next; half under his breath, barely a whisper. “—thanks... Hibari.”

Ever uncomfortable with displays of emotion, Hibari shrugged. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re always like that,” said Yamamoto, laughing. He took one of Hibari’s hands as Hibari turned back towards him; brought it to his lips to brush them against Hibari’s knuckles, before flipping it around to nuzzle his cheek into the callused palm. “You just don’t want anyone to find out, but I know the truth. You’re really kind, Hibari.”

“I am not kind.”

“Are too. I’m saying it, so it must be true, yeah?”

And Hibari had a retort ready and waiting, another one of his smart-mouthed comebacks, but it died on his lips. Yamamoto had turned his face into Hibari’s palm, and his shoulders had begun to shake. There was wetness trickling down his palms.

Hibari averted his eyes.

“...It’s only kindness if you are weak,” he said softly, and did not miss the way that Yamamoto’s lips curled upwards into the slightest of smiles against his skin.

*

Hibari rarely visited the Vongola headquarters if he could help it, and it was even more unusual for him to be there without a business reason. He death-glared at every bodyguard posted in the hallways on the way in, and was only slightly mollified by how they cowered before him.

“Take it easy, Hibari,” said Yamamoto, who was strolling along by his side in the highest of spirits. “You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ache.”

“Unlike some other people, I have other things to do than be here.”

“Hey! I’m not a _thing_ , okay?” said Yamamoto, quickly ducking out of reach of Hibari’s fist and laughing uproariously as he did so.

They had rounded the corner towards the boss’s office by then, and Hibari saw that there was someone waiting outside—one Gokudera Hayato, who was listlessly smoking a cigarette, an empty ashtray hanging from one hand. He gave them both the stink-eye as they approached, squinting through the smoke which hung stale in the air.

“Get a room, you two,” he muttered, now tapping his cigarette over his hand-held ashtray.

“Oh, hey, Gokudera!” The way Yamamoto smiled, it was as though he’d never been away. “Long time no see! You been taking care of yourself?”

Gokudera didn’t answer right away; he just cocked an eye at Hibari, who looked away because he didn’t want to sympathize with Gokudera. He heard Gokudera sigh.

“Sure. I guess.” Gokudera jerked his head over his shoulder, in the general direction of the grand doors behind him. “Well, don’t keep the Tenth waiting.”

Grinning, with Shigure Kintoki resting easily on his shoulder, Yamamoto slipped past the both of them and went inside. Hibari folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall to wait. Intellectually he knew it was too much to hope that Gokudera would leave him alone, but unfortunately, he had yet to shed all of his human impulses.

“So... he seems normal enough. Normal for _him_ , anyway.” Gokudera waited, but once it was clear that Hibari had no intention of responding, he continued as though he had never paused at all. “What did you do for him?”

“Nothing.”

Gokudera scoffed. “You liar. The Tenth told me a little bit about it. You went back to Namimori together?”

“No,” said Hibari, because he knew it would annoy Gokudera, and it amused him to do so. Predictably, Gokudera let out a growl of frustration, and scrubbed at the back of his neck.

“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me about it, then. I guess if he’d wanted us to know what was going on, he wouldn’t have gone to _you_ , anyway.” Gokudera leaned down to place his ashtray on the floor, and then muttered as he stood back up, “Pisses me off, but... well, it is what it is.”

Once again, Hibari said nothing, prompting a sigh of sheer exasperation from Gokudera.

“Anyway... I just wanted to say thanks.”

Hibari kept his eyes trained on a small dent in the opposite wall, his expression blank. “Why? I didn’t do it for you.”

“Right, right,” said Gokudera, smiling sarcastically. “You did it for him, right?”

“No.” Hibari folded his arms a little tighter, beginning to scowl. “I did it for myself.

What Gokudera would have said in response, he never found out; the door to Sawada’s office swung open again and Yamamoto strolled back out. He was no longer holding Shigure Kintoki. Instead, he had both hands tucked behind his neck, and was whistling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Hey! Thanks for waiting.” He grinned in Gokudera’s general direction, and then inclined his head at Hibari. “Shall we?”

Without giving Gokudera a second glance, Hibari pushed off from the wall and followed Yamamoto back down the corridor. He thought he might have heard Gokudera mutter something that sounded a little like ‘denial’ as he passed, but didn’t bother responding. Herbivores, he thought, could believe whatever they wanted—it was of no relevance to him whatsoever.

The silence between them as they walked was companionable, broken only by Yamamoto’s slightly off-tune whistling and the occasional whimper of a bodyguard. They were nearly out of the Vongola compound entirely before either of them spoke—Hibari said, quite suddenly, “You are sure about this?” at the same time that Yamamoto said, “So, wanna go get breakfast?”

They both paused; Hibari rewound the conversation in his mind, and saw the thoughtful look on Yamamoto’s face that probably meant he was doing the same. And then Yamamoto laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, you know... I think so. Tsuna should hold on to it for me, just for now. Never know when I might need it again, and hey... I’ll be back for it someday, right?”

He began to smile, but then stopped to stare openly at Hibari. There was the smallest of smiles on Hibari’s own lips—so faint that it might almost have been unconscious, but it was there all the same.

“You will,” Hibari agreed. He walked on a few more steps, then looked back at Yamamoto, who was still standing there frozen, to add, “I want a burger.”

This was enough to shock Yamamoto back into motion. “A burger? You want a burger for breakfast?”

Defiantly, Hibari lifted his chin. “Is that a problem?”

Yamamoto’s eyebrows were arched so high they almost touched his hairline, but he only laughed.

“No. No, it isn’t.” He leaned forward and hooked his pinky finger around Hibari’s to link their hands, grinning like he was daring Hibari to complain. “No problems whatsoever, so long as I’m with you.”

“Herbivore,” Hibari muttered, but he laced their fingers together anyway. “Sap.”

Beaming from ear to ear, Yamamoto tugged on his hand to drag him in, close enough that their mouths nearly touched. “Guilty as charged,” he murmured, and when they kissed, it stole Hibari’s breath away.

**Author's Note:**

> :-D Comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/andreaphobia) if you wanna talk about these dumb boys. 8018 lives on in 2020, baby!


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